


Unnamed Weecest Short

by WincestSounds (Cammerel)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Feels, Fluff, M/M, Weecest, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cammerel/pseuds/WincestSounds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean comes home injured and Sammy patches him up. (RP with dooweeeooo)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unnamed Weecest Short

**Author's Note:**

> Ages: Sam - 15 and Dean - 19

Dean climbed stiffly from the passenger's seat of the '67 Chevy Impala, taking the keys from his father and walking towards the dinky Motel they were staying at. He stepped with a limp, listening to the sound of his father pulling out and moving on, off to another hunt without him this time. He grimaced and clutched his side, stumbling to the old door with a rusty '15' on it and unlocking it, shifting inside and closing the door with his elbow as he held dinner within the bags on his right arm.

Sam looked up from the book he was reading as Dean entered, the smile on his face dropping as he realized that his brother looked like he was in pain. He immediately got up and walked to Dean's side, taking the bags from him and setting them on the table. "What happened?" he asked, wishing he could reach out and comfort Dean, but not knowing where it'd be okay; he could be sore all over, for all Sam knew.

The older Winchester grimaced as he moved, turning back to lock the door and stumbling towards one of the beds, "Typical haunting, threw me through a window," He hissed in pain, pulling his hand from his left side and lifting the shirt to show his brother the large patch, bleeding through already, "Glass," He said.

Sam's brow furrowed and he immediately started steering Dean toward the end of one of the beds, making sure to keep his touch gentle so as to keep from hurting him. "Stay there," he said sternly, before walking into the bathroom and picking up the small first aid kit, rifling around inside for the necessary supplies.

Dean grinned, despite all of the pain he was in, he could always look forward to his brother caring for his injuries more than himself, and certainly more than his father. He slowly tried to bend his right knee, but stopped as the searing white pain shot up it and knocked the breath from his lungs. He had been _terrified_ to look at it before. But now he was **petrified**.

Sam grabbed gauze, ace bandages, tweezers, rubbing alcohol, and the small sewing kit they used for stitching up wounds before he rejoined Dean in the small bedroom, kneeling in front of him on the bed. "Can you take off your shirt? It'll be easier to get to the glass."

"Sure," Dean said, wincing and reaching back to take off his jacket. His left shoulder was completely messed up and he had to stop and breathe, swallow the pain back and hide it from his brother, but he managed. Once the jacket was done, he used his right arm to take his shirt off, muscles stretching and contorting with the movement and he dropped the article of clothing on the floor.

Sam noticed the difficulty with which Dean moved and his worry increased tenfold; his brother had gotten really beaten up. He eyed the wound for a moment before carefully setting to work, wiping away a bit of blood and noticing there were still a couple shards of glass in the wound. He picked up the tweezers and removed them carefully, hoping Dean wasn't in too much pain. "Does this hurt? You could take some Motrin or something and we could wait a few minutes for it to kick in, maybe then it won't be so bad."

Dean shook his head, "M'fine. M'in to much pain to care, Sammy," He breathed, swallowing, "Just get it done, best you can. Your food's gettin' cold." Truth is, he felt completely and utterly miserable. Beaten. Worn out. Strung back on the line by his father. _Worthless_. He wouldn't tell Sam that, of course, but it didn't stop hurting inside; So much more than the outside.

Sam studied him for a moment, frowning, before he reluctantly started patching up the wound again, working as gently and efficiently as possible. Once the glass was out, he cleaned it up with rubbing alcohol and started stitching it all together carefully. He tied off the end of the string and looked back up at Dean, trying to smile, but failing. "Anything else I need to look at?"

"Eat your damn food," Dean huffed angrily, "M'fine, okay?" He tried to make it sound as stern as possible. He didn't mind Sam fixing up his wounds and treating him, but at the same time, Sam's food really **was** getting cold.

"I don't give a crap about dinner," Sam said, rolling his eyes. Dean was too stubborn for his own good sometimes. "Seriously, Dean, what else is wrong? It'll only get worse if you don't let me treat it."

"I've been in a car for nearly four hours, Sam, honest," The older Winchester said, glaring, "Eat. Your. Food."

Sam knew his brother was lying, so he crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. "Not until you let me help."

Dean sighed. He knew his brother wouldn't give in, he was **far** more stubborn than Dean himself. He nodded finally, "My shoulder's pretty bad... But my knee..." He grimaced, "I haven't even looked at it yet." God, it was probably ten kinds of messed up.

Sam smiled victoriously, but it only lasted for a moment. If Dean was afraid to look at the injury, it would have to be pretty damn bad. "Do you think you can take off your jeans, or will it hurt too much?"

"Maybe not my shoes," Dean said, motioning to them as he... He stopped, looking at his pants and he reached forward to unbutton them, but his arm was pulling painfully and he winced, "Goddamn."

Sam gently placed his hands over Dean's and moved them out of the way. He carefully untied Dean's shoes and pulled them off, then set on getting off his jeans. He unbuttoned them easily, then hesitated, feeling suddenly awkward. "Stay still," he ordered, stalling a bit.

Dean nodded, grimacing and biting his lip. The pain from both his leg and shoulder were hurting so bad he could barely _breathe_.

Sam noticed the look on Dean's face and took a deep breath; so what if it made him feel a bit awkward? It would help his brother, and that was all that mattered. He started carefully tugging on Dean's jeans, making sure he didn't jostle his injured knee too much as he pulled them down to his ankles.

"Oh, god," he muttered, staring at the older Winchester's knee in mild horror; it looked awful.

Dean had his eyes shut in pain, nearly doubling over in it as he gasped and swallowed sickly.

Sam sucked in a shuddering breath. "You're alright, it's not that bad," he said soothingly, even though he knew it was a complete lie. He got up suddenly and ran into the bathroom, shaking three Motrin into his hand and filling a little plastic cup with water.

He knelt beside Dean again and held out the medicine, brows furrowed and a frown curling his lips. "Take these, they should help a little..."

Dean nodded and did so, letting out a heavy breath. He wanted to sit back and sleep for years, but the pain in his shoulder was something so fierce he didn't even care to bother with it. He glanced down at his knee and felt his stomach bottom out. **Shit**.

Sam panicked a little as Dean finally looked down at his knee. "It's not that bad," he said, almost desperately, even though he knew it was no use. "It'll be really easy to fix up, I promise. Just-close your eyes, alright? I'll have it treated before you know it."

"Sam, this..." Dean swallowed nervously, "This don't look so good..." He tried to control his breathing. He didn't even know **what** to do with the state of it. Either way, dad was going to be completely furious.

"It's not good, but it's manageable," Sam said, studying the swollen, purple knee with unbelievable worry. He'd never seen an injury that daunting without any blood spilling out. "The only thing I can do is wrap it, for now. It's-there are no open wounds, but... It's probably broken."

Dean nodded, "Yeah, you'd've had to've seen her throw me through the window to understand that one. My knee hit the frame of the wall so hard I started spinnin', thought I was some kinda doll..."

Sam fought back a shudder at the mental image of Dean being tossed around like that; it just made him nauseous. "It's not fair that we have to do this," he muttered darkly, unrolling the ace bandage. "Dad puts us in danger all the time, and he doesn't even care. How the hell is that alright in any way?"

"Sam, don't start in on this again," The older Winchester responded sternly, glaring at his brother, "Don't talk about dad like that... Not with me like this, please." He reached up, touching Sam's shoulder with his shaking fingers and giving him a weak smile.

Sam didn't even bother looking up at Dean as he slowly began wrapping the bandage around the mangled knee, being careful not to wrap it so tightly that it would cut of his brother's circulation. He knew Dean hated hearing anything said against their father, but Sam couldn't help but be angry about it; John Winchester treated them like soldiers, even though they were just a couple of kids. He hated it.

"I can hear you thinkin that'," Dean said, grinning despite his annoyance and he chuckled, "It's all over your face, kiddo."

Sam was too pissed to even attempt a smile. He simply sent Dean his best 'look' (and it definitely wasn't a bitch face, no matter what his brother said) before carefully hooking the bandage so that it would stay in place. "That's the best I can do for now," he said flatly. "Want me to take a look at your shoulder?"

"It's probably dislocated," Dean said the best he could and sat up firm, wincing, "Probably got some glass in it too, I'm not sure." Truth be told, he was glad he couldn't see his shoulder blade, no matter _what_ it looked like.

Sam climbed onto the bed, wincing at the look of Dean's shoulder. It wasn't as bad as his knee, but there was glass and it **did** look like it was dislocated. He started pulling out the glass with the tweezers again, fixing up the wound the same as he had the one on Dean's side. Once it was cleaned up, he grimaced. "I have to pop it back into place. You want me to do it on three, give you some time to brace yourself?"

Dean nodded nervously, "Yeah," He said, bunching his brows up in pain.

"One... Two... Three!" Sam pushed, Dean's shoulder falling back into the socket after a moment's strain. He knew how painful it was to fix a dislocated shoulder-he had suffered that torment before, when he fell out of a tree when he was ten-and he did not envy his brother in the slightest in that moment.

Dean kept the most of his reaction on the inside, but he couldn't stop the sharp gasp from coming out and he winced. The entirety of his shoulder writhed in pain with him and he bent over, squeezing his eyes shut as he breathed himself through it, "Goddamn... Sammy..." He gasped, teeth biting each other.

Sam grimaced and rubbed soothing circles into Dean's back, making sure to give his shoulder a wide berth. "I'm sorry," he muttered, feeling awful, even though he knew he had to do it. "It sucks, I know."

The older Winchester nodded and sighed, laying back on the bed and closing his eyes, "Now eat your damn food."

Sam laughed despite himself and shook his head slightly. Dean made no sense to him sometimes. He walked over to the table and looked inside the bag, smiling when he saw a small salad in a plastic container. He immediately took off the lid and tore off the top of the dressing packet, pouring on a generous amount and sitting on the edge of the bed next to Dean, watching him carefully as he ate. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Don't matter on the outside," Dean breathed, sitting back up, "Toss me mine, would you?" He didn't want to explain how things worked inside of his own mind ninety percent of the time, not to Sam, not ever.

These things were best kept from his little brother. Best to keep Sam pure, and innocent; Even though he was trying his hardest to be rebellious and stubborn. He didn't come close to feeling as worthless as Dean did. And it was best he never knew that **that** kind of thinking existed.

Sam leaned over as much as he could, almost falling off the bed, but he managed to grab the bag of food and hand it to Dean without toppling off the mattress. "Well, what about on the inside?" he asked, noticing the odd wording of Dean's answer.

Dean shook his head as he took the bag, opening it and pulling a burger out, spreading the wrapper. "That part only matters to me," He responded before biting in, closing his eyes and grinning. He hadn't eaten since dinner last night with their father, and it was a relief to have something fill his numb stomach at last.

"Bullshit! It matters to me, too," Sam protested, setting his food to the side. He wasn't exactly starving, and his concern for his brother came before his stomach any day. There was obviously something going on, and he intended to find out what it was. "Seriously, is something wrong? C'mon, Dean, you can trust me."

"S'nothin'," Dean responded at once, wolfing down the first burger and pulling out a second, "Now would you leave the bones where they lie?"

Sam's fists clenched at his side and he stood suddenly, throwing the salad in the trash and pulling a jacket on. He was sick of it. He was sick of not being told anything, of being treated like a kid and expected to be a soldier at the same time. He needed to cool off, or he was going to explode. "I'm going for a walk."

"Sam, stop!" Dean started to say, reaching out to stop him and forgetting about his leg. And that's about the moment that a nineteen year old man, wearing nothing but his tight black undershorts slid off the front of the bed and landed hard on his side... On the floor.

Sam stopped dead, his anger ebbing away slightly as he saw Dean crash down. He immediately ran to his side, helping him get up and get back onto the bed. "You know, you really shouldn't walk around on a broken knee," he dead panned.

Dean was caught so off guard that his _actual_ response came out on the outside this time. He grabbed his brother's arm, sobbing and groaning out loudly in pain, "Holy shit..."

Sam's eyes widened; he hadn't expected it to hurt Dean that badly. Guilt crashed over him like a wave; his brother had been trying to stop him from storming out like a pissy five-year-old, and now he was so in pain he was _sobbing_? "Shit. Dean, I'm so sorry, I didn't think you would try to follow me!"

"Goddammit, Sam," Dean said, raising his voice, pushing himself away and sliding back onto the bed as he gritted his teeth, "Well, how **else** do you expect me to respond? Honestly? Do I normally just sit and let you storm out?"

Sam felt another spark of anger but pushed it down, trying to keep control of himself. He was always so _angry_ as of late, he felt like his temper was always just under the surface, ready to come out in bursts. "I expected you to let me go, yeah! You're injured, you shouldn't be moving!"

"I forgot," The older Winchester admitted, grinning weakly as he tried to force himself to relax again, "Would you sit down now, please?" He nearly begged, "An' listen to me for one goddamn minute without your panties getting all knotted up in a bunch?"

Sam refused to sit down. His skin was practically itching with the need to move, to get as far away from the crappy motel room as possible and just forget about reality for a while. "I'm listening," he said flatly, not meeting Dean's eyes.

Dean frowned and sighed. **Damn** , if he couldn't say two words without this kid eating right through them. It didn't help that, in a lot of ways, he was quicker than Dean. And considering how much pain he was in right now, he wasn't really thinking clear enough to filter himself, "What... What I mean is... About the inside..." He was stammering, like he was eight fucking years old again, standing in front of a classroom and introducing himself 'D-D-Dean W-Win-ch-chester'.

Sam relaxed a bit; obviously, it was hard for him to talk about, and Sam had no right to demand anything of him. "You don't..." He sighed and shook his head. "You don't have to say anything if you don't want to, Dean. I was overreacting. I won't leave, alright? Just... Relax, okay? You're hurt, you should be kicking back, watching TV, sleeping, **something**. I'm being ridiculous. Sorry."

"No, no," Dean continued stammering, eyes going wide as he closed his mouth and tried to pull his shit back together, "Sit, Sam, come on, man... I'm... I'm tryin' to talk." He sounded ridiculous, he knew it, but he really **was** trying. "Would you sit now, dammit?"

Sam sat down immediately, figuring that if his brother was set on getting whatever he was thinking out into the open, he might as well make it as easy as possible for him. "You don't have to be nervous about telling me anything, Dean," he said quietly, staring down at his knees for a moment before reluctantly looking up at his brother. "I'm not going to judge you or think of you any differently because of what you have to say. I promise."

The older Winchester sat up, sighing and nodding, and then admitting: "I kinda stammer when I get nervous... Or I did... I thought I got over it, guess not." He took a breath and put his hands together, "I don't want to explain the whole thing to you, a guy's gotta keep his backbone somehow, don't he? But uh... I know you're... You're faster than you should be. So you probably already see... Some portion of the whole thing."

Sam shook his head. "I guess I'm not as quick as you seem to think I am," he said ruefully. "I haven't noticed anything odd about you lately." He felt like a crappy brother, admitting that, but he wasn't about to claim to know what was running through Dean's mind.

"It's rough," Dean started to explain, eyebrows knitting together, "Bein' in my spot. Bein'... Put on the side. Never really... Never really amountin' to much in the end. Dad's out there, right now, huntin' down a Werewolf an' he needs my help and I'm just..." He sighed, swallowing, "Not good enough."

Sam felt like he had been punched in the gut. He had always admired his brother. Hell, Dean was his hero. He wanted so badly to be like him, brave and selfless and calm under pressure. And hearing that he thought he wasn't good enough made Sam's chest ache. "Dean, you're definitely good enough. You're the greatest person I know. Dad-Dad expects too much of you. He treats you like a warrior, but you're still only a teenager, man. Don't think of yourself that way, alright? You're pretty awesome, in my book."

Dean looked away, he didn't believe the words, as much as he wanted to, he probably never would, but they warmed him, "It doesn't matter. Sammy," He looked at his brother, terrified, but he was already saying it before he could stop himself, "Truth is... If it weren't for you... I wouldn't be here. And I like havin' you to come home to. Knowin' that you'll be here... I don't like to depend on it so much... But I do. It means... It means a lot, Sammy. Havin' you to take care of me. Because I wouldn't be doin' it myself."

Sam took a deep, shuddering breath, his guilt growing with each word Dean spoke. He loved his brother. He really did. Possibly more than was healthy. But he hated it so much, traveling from motel room to motel room, never having any real home.

He had known since he was twelve that he was going to get out as soon as he could, and hearing Dean say that he would fall apart without him? It practically tore his heart to shreds. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, voice thick. He tried to smile, but it ended up as more of a grimace. "And it matters to me, Dean. I hate hearing you say that about yourself. You're--" He paused, took another deep breath, and braced himself. "You're my hero, man. I know it sounds corny, but it's true. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I'm _your's_?" Dean chuckled, reaching out and touching his brother's shoulder, "You're mine, Sammy. I mean it. You're the only reason why I get out of bed anymore... I just... I can't see another reason to fight these things anymore..."

Sam couldn't stop himself. He surged forward, wrapping his arms around his waist and burying his face in the crook of his neck. "Dean, don't say that, please," he begged, practically shaking. "I'm not-I just... What if I'm not around anymore? I want to be able to know that, no matter what happens to me, you'll still keep going."

Dean's eyes widened at the response and he winced in pain, the hiss coming through his teeth as he rested his hand on the back of his brother's head, "I don't know, Sammy, I don't know if I could. But nothin's goin' to happen to you, I promise."

Sam loosened his grip, guilty that he had hurt Dean, but too upset to let go just yet. "You can't know that for sure," he muttered. "I might not be around for much longer, Dean. Anything could happen. Just please promise me you'll try. If I do end up gone, you have to try to keep going. Please."

"Sure, Sammy," The older Winchester said, chuckling nervously, "Sure... I promise. I'll try." There was only so much he could say. The kid was acting _weird_ , like he could keel over at any moment, which was goddamn ridiculous.

Sam took a minute to calm down, still feeling awful for even considering leaving. The awful thing was, though, that he probably still would. The idea of college, a normal job, a family, an actual home were just so tempting. He would go crazy if he stayed with his brother and his Dad forever. His anger would eat him alive.

"Thanks. I'm sorry I freaked out, I just... You mean so much to me, I hate hearing you talking about yourself like that. You're the most amazing person I've ever met. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, you wouldn't even think awful things like that."

Dean grinned slightly, barely even being affected by the words, but he nodded, for his brother. And then he cleared his throat, picking back up his burger and continuing to eat through it at last.

Sam ducked under Dean's arm as his brother reached for his burger and shucked off his jacket, collapsing onto the other bed. He was exhausted, suddenly, the surge of conflicting emotions draining him of the energy the anger had brought about. It had been a long day, and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep with his thoughts racing the way they were, but he at least wanted to lay down for a while.

The older Winchester sat back on his own bed, grabbing the remote and flipping on the tv eager to have some sound between the two of them other then their own fucking heartbeats. He sighed, sipping his coke and polishing off the cold burger.


End file.
